


Asphyxia 101

by Laintadhg



Series: States of Change [3]
Category: Final Fantasy VIII
Genre: (or lack thereof), Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, F/M, Medicinal Drug Use, Mild Language
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-28
Updated: 2017-09-28
Packaged: 2019-01-06 12:46:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,182
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12211578
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Laintadhg/pseuds/Laintadhg
Summary: The former instructor had barely noticed that her hand had drifted from her lap and lay by her side, brushing against the feverish skin of Seifer’s forearm. His eyes slid down and focused on the point where their skin touched, not moving otherwise, and spoke again, his tone hollow, “And those are the dreams I can sleep through.”





	Asphyxia 101

“How’s it going?”

_“Eh…Could be worse. Only puked twice since you called last.”_

“…Have you been able to keep _anything_ down today?”

_“Nope. But, hey, I was on a liquid diet before all this shit anyways.”_

“That’s not – Are you vomiting again?”

_“Ugh….No…nothing’s coming up anyways.”_

“…I’m coming over.”

_“Hyne, no, Quis, I’m – “_

“Shut your damn mouth, Almasy. I’m coming over.”

That conversation had been thirty minutes ago. Thirty agonizingly slow minutes driving towards Balamb Town in the fastest vehicle Garden owned. Which, to be fair, was hardly important because Quistis was still obeying the speed limits on the two-lane highway. Most people didn’t realize that it was at least a forty-five minute drive in normal traffic, simply because the roads were too small. Of course, you couldn’t go _off_ the roads, either, because you’d end up stuck in the mud and facing off with Geezards and Bite Bugs before you could say “Shit”.

Tonight, however, there was no traffic, not another car in sight on the long and lonely road, and Quistis silently gave thanks for that. Seifer was holed up in his room in Balamb’s second and newest hotel, putting himself through his second day of detox, and Quistis had been charged, as usual, with keeping tabs on him. His drinking had finally caught the attention of Garden’s administration about a month before and they’d been watching him like a hawk since. The final straw had been a drunken voicemail he left for Rinoa, a half-garbled reminiscing of their first time playing hide the cucumber, which, of course, he’d left from Quistis’ number. Dr. Kadowaki gave him a full work up the next day and declared him a danger to himself, ordering his full detox by the end of the month. Having gone back to the bottle twice since that ultimatum, this was his third and final chance to sober up or Garden was kicking him to the curb.

Pulling into the gated parking lot on the outskirts of town, Quistis parked and pulled the keys from the ignition, grabbing her emergency medical kit and purse on her way out. The doors locked behind her with a beep as she hurried to the hotel, trying to not to run and cause a scene. The people in this town got nervous when they saw one of their heroes running through the streets in the middle of the night. Into the elevator and up four floors, she fumbled with her key card between the giant bag on her shoulder and her purse, barely getting it into the slot without dropping it. A green flashing light and a click let her into the room where she found the lights off and an uneasy stillness in the air. Stepping in, she flicked on the light of the main room, searching for her charge carefully. Seifer clearly lived there, the empty beer cans and various liquor bottles strewn about with take-out boxes on nearly every surface, a dirty sock half-hanging out of a ragged steel-capped boot, but the man himself was nowhere to be seen.

Clearing a space on the counter of the kitchenette, she set down her bags and gave the room another glance, almost missing the foot peeking out of the darkened bathroom. Heart leaping into her throat, she ran into the tiny room and threw on the lights, blood thrumming in her ears at the sight of Seifer sprawled out on the floor. He was laying on his stomach, head to the side with the usual warm tan of his skin sapped out entirely. His lips were tinted blue and a trail of vomit leaked from his mouth onto the tiles.

Shaking the tightness out of her chest, Quistis dropped to her knees and hauled his hulking form onto his back, keeping his head tilted to drain the vomit. She felt for his pulse on his wrist, but it wasn’t strong enough there, her eyes watering as she thought the worst. Sniffling, she rubbed away the tears, smudging her makeup in the process, and reached for his neck to check there. The moment her cold fingers touched his skin, the muscles in his neck jerked and his hand shot up to grab hers.

“Fuck!” She shrieked as his eyes shot open, wild and scared as he tried to figure out where he was, “Seifer, what the _hell_?!”

“Wh – “ He started as she wrenched her hand from his grip, trailing off and looking irritatedly at the wall behind her. She thought he would finish, but he turned abruptly and puked in the toilet instead. Quistis had to turn her head and gulp back her own rebellious stomach acids at the sounds of it alone. When he finished, he flushed the toilet and wiped his mouth on his bare arm, turning back to face her with an indignant look. “What the hell yourself, Trepe.”

“…Are you serious right now? I come into your hotel room to find you blue-lipped and surrounded by vomit on the bathroom floor and you think you can ask _me_ ‘what the hell’?” She shot at him, managing to put her hands on her hips and look motherly, even as she sat primly on the floor. Spitting the last of his vomit into the toilet, he looked her straight in the eyes and said, “Yep.”

“Where the hell do you get off?!” She shouted, standing up and waving her finger at him authoritatively. He just shrugged and used some toilet paper to clean up the puke from the floor, tossing it into the toilet and flushing again.

“Where do I _get off_? Well, right over there on the couch usually. Coupla tugs and a good skin mag does the trick most nights.”

Grinding her teeth was all that kept Quistis from flipping her lid completely as she stared down at him. Taking a deep breath, she turned on her heel and started towards her bags, the tired timbre of her charge calling behind her a moment later, “…The fuck do you think is gonna happen when you reach for a trained killer’s neck while he sleeps? He’s gonna hug ya?”

She sighed out that breath a moment later and turned back slowly, crossing her arms over her chest and giving Seifer her best ‘you’re damn lucky I don’t have my whip’ glare. “…I hate it when you’re right.”

He gave her a barely-there smirk and slowly heaved himself to his feet. “I know.”

Pinching the bridge of her nose and not believing that she actually cared about this fool’s well being, Quistis waved him into the living space with her free arm and stepped back from the door. Seifer made it a full three steps before his knees buckled and he collapsed onto her, taking them both tumbling to the floor.

“Fuck…sorry…” He mumbled as he used the wall to push himself up into a seated position, temporarily pinning her between himself and the matte-painted surface. Up close, he smelled like death or maybe a drunken Grat, the acrid vomit mixing with whatever it was he tried to drown himself in before he had to detox. He looked like corpse, too, the bags under his eyes bruise-colored, his usually coifed hair grungy with sweat, and his jade eyes dulled without their usual hint of mischief. The color of his lips, however, was slowly starting to return to normal.

“Why are you lips blue, by the way?” Quistis asked, eyes narrowing as he leaned back and steadied himself on the floor. They apparently weren’t moving out of the bathroom anytime soon. “You were still breathing when I found you. Well…barely…”

“I blew a Smurk.”

She shot him an unamused glare and crossed her arms over her chest.

“You should stick a piece of coal up your ass. You’d make a diamond in like…a week,” Seifer offered, rubbing at his eyes nonchalantly while she continued to glare at him, “You’d be rich in no time, just sayin’…Anyways, you can slowly choke on vomit while you sleep for hours, soooo…no oxygen getting into your face, your lips turn blue. Asphyxia 101.”

“Even when you’re half dead, you never stop being a smart-ass…” She commented as she helped him lean back against the vanity doors, his legs stretching clear through the doorway.

“Comes with the territory, Quis.”

“I literally hate you.”

“Aww…You know I love when you sweet-talk me, sugarlips.”

“…Just for that, I’m leaving. Have fun drowning in your own vomit,” Quistis stated matter-of-factly, pulling her legs out from under herself and starting to stand. Seifer caught her hand when she was half crouched and shot her an apologetic look.

“Sorry, sorry...I’ll shut the fuck up, just…this sucks. Being alone in a shithole room while I sweat and vomit out all the toxic fucking junk in my system. And I can’t focus on anything but how bad this sucks and all the shit that I did to get here and – _fuck,_ it just makes me wanna drink…”

She wrestled her hand out of his grip, which was weak to begin with, and stood up anyways, dusting herself off as she did so. Staring down at the ex-knight, she tried not to feel sorry for him, for the situation he was in. He’d done it all to himself, really. Even if the mind-control theory was correct, it was proven that a sorceress, no matter her power, couldn’t influence someone to do something they weren’t already capable of doing. Willingness aside, Seifer had it in him to brutalize his enemies, torture his comrades, and even commit mass murder. Why anyone would feel sorry for him was unfathomable, and yet Quistis found herself doing just that.

Turning on her heel, she said nothing as she walked out of the small tiled room.

“Quistis…c’mon, really? What, do I have to fucking _bleed_ for you to have some sympathy?” Seifer called from his place on the floor, scowling at her back as she walked out of his line of sight. He heard the click of the door and assumed she was actually leaving, so, naturally, he shouted obscenities at her, “Oh, _fuck you,_ Trepe! Yanno, I bet they’d put a black mark on your pristine post-war record for letting me die here! That’s on _you_!”

“Actually,” the sound of her voice caught him off guard and he whipped his head towards it, making his vision spin for a moment, “I think they’d give me a medal. And a parade.”

Seifer almost didn’t catch the pillow she threw at him, but he managed to stop it from hitting him in the face. She’d gone into the bedroom to get something to make him more comfortable despite herself and she had three more in her hands plus a throw blanket he wasn’t sure he’d ever seen before. “Now, if you’ll stop berating me, I’ll monitor your vitals until you’re stable.”

“…Which is medic speak for ‘I’ll stay’, right?” He tried to pass the comment off as snarky, but they both knew he was serious. He might have admitted to being lonely and bored, but blatantly asking for help still wasn’t in his wheelhouse.

“…For now.”

He gave a tired laugh as she dropped a pillow into place next to him and neatly sat down next to him, another sliding between her back and the vanity doors. She handed him the last pillow and he positioned it comfortably for himself as well, eying her carefully for a moment. “Yanno…You never used to be this sarcastic, Trepe. Think I’m rubbin’ off on you.”

She looked at him like he had two heads and scoffed. “I’ve given Selphie explicit instructions to steal Hyperion from the evidence lockup and execute me if I ever became even remotely like you.”

It was his turn to cross his arms and give her a look of disbelief. “Messenger Girl? You trust that little spazmode to carry out a detailed heist and mercy killing? I’d be nervous she’d steal the wrong weapon or miss when she fired. Besides, the damn blade is the length of her entire body, how they hell would she carry it?”

“I could tear your argument apart, point-by-point, if I really felt up to it, but you have a way of exhausting my mental capacities with your bullshit. So I’ll just say this: Selphie Tilmitt is _truly_ dedicated to your demise.”

Seifer paused in thought for a moment before giving a nod and a shrug in agreement. “Can’t say I blame her. Of all the shit I pulled, Trebia was…Hyne…It was really fucked up.”

Quistis nodded, but remained silent, not sure of what to say. There wasn’t really anything _to_ say. They sat in silence for a few moments, each in their own thoughts about the war, about how everything had gone down, how the aftermath, still unfolding around them, was so much worse than anyone could have imagined.

“I have dreams about it,” he broke the silence with the low, but controlled statement, “I’ve never been to Trebia Garden, didn’t know anyone but Mess – uh…Selphie, who’d gone there…But I see their bodies. Kids, mostly. Burnt up, limbs missing, bent rebar from the building sticking out of them. They don’t chase me or anything crazy like that, they just… _exist_ in front me, no matter where I turn. If I try to leave, it’s just endless fields of the wreckage…I don’t even know if they’re real memories or some guilt-fueled retribution that my conscience made up.”

The former instructor had barely noticed that her hand had drifted from her lap and lay by her side, brushing against the feverish skin of Seifer’s forearm. His eyes slid down and focused on the point where their skin touched, not moving otherwise, and spoke again, his tone hollow, “And those are the dreams I can sleep through.”

Tentatively, Quistis slid her fingers down his arm and gave his clammy hand a gentle squeeze. Still watching, Seifer gave a weak squeeze back and tried to smile, the corners of his lips twitching upwards momentarily, but it wasn’t his signature grin. It was the pained smile of someone playing a role, trying to do what was expected of them when a particular social nicety was imparted on them. She knew the look well, knew how it made the muscles of your face ache when you forced them into that empty visage. Perhaps the pity she had felt for him wasn’t really pity at all, but empathy.

“Hey…were you crying or something earlier? Your eyeliner is all fucked up,” He asked, prepping a snarky comeback about her boyfriend while he watched her face freeze in a horrified neutral expression. She hadn’t realized he’d noticed.

“…No,” She replied coolly, gently wiping the smudges from under her eyes, “How do you know it’s eyeliner anyways? I thought a tough guy like you wouldn’t know a thing about makeup.”

“I lived with Fujin for three years. She freaked out when I accidentally flushed her powder brush down the john in a drunken stupor once. The next morning, I had every item in her arsenal of makeup painstakingly described alongside the torture I would endure if I fucked with each of them. So, yeah. I know what eyeliner is.”

Quistis nodded in a surprised moment of understanding. She didn’t need to question if Seifer was making that story up or not. She could very easily imagine Fujin doing just that, probably in duplicate when Raijin no doubt made the same mistake. The small eye-patched woman was intimidating on a good day.

“Any shakes? Or have those pretty much gone away?” She asked, filling the silence between them. It wasn’t an uncomfortable stillness, but she still felt obligated to get rid of it. She didn’t want him to be someone she could comfortably ignore, who wouldn’t interrupt the quiet because he enjoyed it as much as she did. That was Xu’s role in her life, not Seifer’s.

“Eh…They come and they go,” He replied, holding up his hand, which appeared still and calm. The hand in his lap, however, was trembling against the soft cotton of his sweatpants. She made a mental note of it in her running psychological profile of him; _Lies to project a strong image to others._

“Good…good…and you’ve been taking the anti-anxiety meds?” She didn’t know why she’d even asked that one. She’d seen the bottle full, untouched where she’d left it on the counter three weeks ago.

“No.”

“…No? No reasons?” She narrowed her eyes at him, wondering why he hadn’t lied about that.

“Nope. I just don’t need ‘em.”

“Right,” She outwardly winced for not having seen that answer coming. It fit his profile, the pills being a sign of weakness to him, a sign that he would be taking the help that was given to him. Still, she pressed him about it. “So you can sleep fine without them?”

“Eh.”

“…That’s not an answer, Seifer.”

“Jesus, Trepe, you’re my babysitter, not my shrink. They pay some other schmuck to break me down into a million shitty diagnoses.”

“Sure, he breaks you down into them and I have to make sure you don’t feed into them. Like you’re doing right now,” She gave him a knowing, dead-eyed look before picking some grime out from under her well-manicured nails. She expected another snarky remark to be shot back at her, but instead he let that uncomfortably comfortable silence settled back into the space between them. He was looking down at the hand in his lap, the one still trembling just a little, eyes glazed over in what Quistis hoped was deep contemplation of his issues. On one hand, she wished she knew what went through his head in moments like this, the thoughts and schemas that drove him to do all the shitty and not-so-shitty things that he did. On the other, she knew that even a brief glimpse into the gnarled mess that was his psyche would probably scar her in ways that she could never imagine.

“Look, I’m stable, I’m not blue anymore, no energy to puke again...You don’t have to stay,” Seifer mumbled, not looking up from the hand in his lap, his other arm resting against her hand on the cool tile floor. Her fingers involuntarily twitched, brushing the soft blonde hairs on his forearm, and drew his eyes up to meet hers.

“I’m…it’s three in the morning. The adrenaline has worn off now that I know you’re not dead, so…I’m tired. I’ll need a nap before I drive back anyways,” She justified herself, albeit shakily, and fluffed her pillow behind herself, “I’m staying for myself, not you.”

Seifer’s eyes softened and he smiled softly in spite of himself. “Sure thing, Quisty.”

Several hours later, they’d wake up, still on the bathroom floor, her head resting against his chest, his arm wrapped around her shoulders, and both of them pushing away the thought that this, _all of this_ , somehow felt right.

**Author's Note:**

> This was sitting in my drafts 90% finished, so I finally finished it. A fucking year later. I'm so good at this writing thing, lemme tell ya.


End file.
